A Warrior Still
by Pteropus717
Summary: Hardshell's last day on earth.


_Author Note_: For some reason I decided to experiment with the style, so if it seems disjointed, that's partly why. I wanted to restrict the number of sentences per paragraph so I wouldn't just ramble on. The story's about a thousand words longer than I anticipated, so that was clearly a total success.  
This all boils down to me desperately trying to justify why Hardshell didn't just transform and fly away from the missile. (The Decepticons have this nasty habit of forgetting they can fly at the _worst possible times_.)  
If you haven't seen the episode "Hurt" or don't remember the details, I'd recommend rewatching it. The fic is a little hard to follow otherwise. It's not really a standalone story so much as a closer look at the episode from Hardshell's POV. And ignore the random _Beast Wars_ nods; I think I felt compelled to include them because of David Kaye.

* * *

He pulls himself out of the molten pit, claws searing on the rocks. His body is overheating and his vision flickers, but there is no mistaking his target. With a metallic screech boiling in his throat, he thrusts his arm forward and fires, blasting a crater into the Wrecker's back.

He kneels beside his fallen warrior, his body shaking inconsistently. Dull static emits from the corpse's head: a severed comm link connection. Evidence of the warrior's commitment to following commands before all else.

The second warrior lives, though he's stunned by the Wrecker's grenade. Hardshell sits with him as they await the arrival of the _Nemesis_. As usual, they don't need to speak.

Tox-En still rises from the lava in a sickening mist. The warrior tries to clear his head with a shake, shrieks at the pain, and tries again, gentler this time. Hardshell senses a vicious circle developing and orders him to be still.

The _Nemesis_ plows softly through the clouds with no more than a deep, pulsing hum. The two haul themselves to their feet, Hardshell catching his comrade's arm when he stumbles. An Eradicon's voice cuts into the comm link, inquiring about the amount of Tox-En in their possession.

Hardshell tells him it was destroyed, but the Eradicon asks for clarification on the material's whereabouts. He is understandably reluctant to give this news to Megatron. Hardshell simply repeats himself, not knowing what else to say.

They're expected to fly to the ship, and Hardshell has to describe their condition as thoroughly as possible while his warrior draws ragged breaths beside him. It takes some convincing, but the Eradicon lowers the mining tunnel for them with an exasperated sigh. When he reaches the ship's bridge, Hardshell will not be surprised to see wheels on the Eradicon's shoulders.

In the yellow tube, the warrior struggles to stay upright. Hardshell says they will receive proper medical attention after he reports to Megatron. It's one perk of living on the Decepticon warship.

He stands at the end of the line of officers on the bridge. The formation can't help implying an execution, and Hardshell is uncomfortable with the thought. Insecticons don't have those.

The lean one stands beside him with a slouch that is not so much lazy as it is predatory. No matter how Hardshell rationalizes it, how often he tells himself that Soundwave is renowned for his practicality and self-control, part of him will never shed his innate wariness of the communications officer. Nothing about him is natural.

Megatron asks for an excuse but doesn't really want one. Hardshell doesn't understand the purpose of these mind games, but he's learned to recognize them. It isn't his strength that's helped him survive most, but rather his ability to adapt.

Abiding by an unspoken warrior's code, Hardshell is as honest and humble as possible. He mentions the Autobot's demise, hoping to offset his shortcomings. The medic scoffs, and Hardshell manages to keep his response verbal and civil, albeit condescending.

It isn't until the pejorative "bug" is used to describe a fallen comrade that Hardshell foregoes words, unleashing a feral snarl at the medic. Somewhere deep down, he loathes himself for losing control in this company. But it is rewarding to see the red one jump at the noise.

The satisfaction melts away as Hardshell leads his injured warrior back to the rest of the hive to recuperate. He hates going back on his word, but he can't allow his brothers to be treated by a medic who places no value on their lives, not even enough to fake respect for the dead. He encourages his warriors with empty boasts about the Wrecker's death, knowing how little it will boost their morale in a time of grieving.

An Eradicon stands too close to their path, intruding on the physical closeness that Insecticons only welcome among themselves. The healthier warrior gives him a warning growl as they pass. Most of the Insecticons don't seem comfortable communicating outside their own language, but Hardshell sees the Eradicon raise his hands in submission and step back, and he assumes the warrior's meaning was clear.

_Pit-bound scavengers. Scrap eaters._ For some reason, it's that last one that flares in Hardshell's mind as he whirls to face his attackers.

A blow intended for the offending Eradicon knocks the medic off his feet instead. It was mostly an accident. Hardshell leaves him out of the ensuing fight, but still the medic spends more time inspecting his superficial scratches than he does checking on the injured Insecticon, who now sits slumped against the wall.

They're back on the bridge, all three of them brought before Megatron at the medic's request. Hardshell wonders what he contributes to the Decepticon cause that grants him so much political power. When his warrior leans against his arm, trembling with exhaustion, Hardshell stiffens his shoulder to support his weight.

Megatron is unamused by the medic's pacing and ranting. Hardshell watches the display, thinking it might be comical under different circumstances. He can't help imagining how easy it would be to brace his thumb against the medic's small head, bobbing emphatically between his shoulders, and pop it clean off to save them all a lot of pointless discussions.

Hardshell had resolved to control his temper this time, but at the mention of restraints he's gripped by a rage so fierce that he leaves his warrior's side. He knows he's just rising to the bait—he's painfully aware of that—but the idea of Megatron sending the hive back to the stasis pods until he needs a few to sacrifice in battle is too strong, no matter how implausible. The medic tapped into a primal fear, and he'll get a primal response.

The medic refuses to make eye contact, and Hardshell knows it isn't instinctive behavior, self-preservation in the face of danger. It's a specific social gesture, indicating a sense of superiority so strong as to deem even acknowledging Hardshell's existence a waste of his time. Hardshell bristles at the indirectness; it's just a more subtle way of calling him a savage.

A message from an Autobot—another Wrecker. The first one lives. Even the medic's repetition of "bug" can't breach the sudden coldness enveloping Hardshell.

Megatron turns on him, advances, yells. Hardshell backs up, unable to comprehend why Megatron feels so much fury toward him. He incapacitated an Autobot and kept the relic out of enemy hands—more than what two of the other officers achieved.

The Seeker aided the Autobot leader and let a vicious traitor escape, yet he was barely reprimanded. The medic lost his relic and remorselessly allowed soldiers to be killed, yet he's free to strut across the ship, showing off his scratches as though they're ancient battle scars. The most Megatron raises at him is an eyebrow, not a fist.

This isn't how things are done among Insecticons. Megatron lauded Soundwave for his success, of course, much like Hardshell would praise one of his own. But the animosity, the verbal lashings, the mistrust among the crew...it would never even occur to Hardshell to instill that in his hive, no matter how severe their failures.

Hardshell's understanding of the Decepticon hierarchy evaporates. It isn't the meritocracy he'd assumed it was, and as Megatron jabs a finger at him, demanding an Autobot spark, he realizes that he's not dealing with reason, either intuitive or socially fabricated. Hardshell, the most fearless Insecticon warrior of his time, is afraid.

He leads his hive through the inverted bowl of the sky, heading for the appointed coordinates. They can sense his deep contemplation, and while they can't share his specific thoughts, they unite in the feeling. It's a comfort that's partly soured by the knowledge that outsiders would view such sophisticated communication as uncivilized.

They land together on the cliff. A ship sits across the canyon, the Wrecker racing away from it in an arrow of dust. Hardshell doesn't transform yet.

He looks to the right, to the left, meeting the eyes of his warriors. Words are not and never have been necessary among them, and Hardshell has no need for physical displays of respect, the kind of reassurance Megatron demands from his underlings on a whim. The hive is not a cluster of subordinates; they are one.

The Wrecker calls for him, addressing him with the biting slur. Hardshell can no longer distinguish between Autobot and Decepticon, no longer sees the point in trying. There are only Insecticons and others.

He wants to leave, to let the fight deflate out of him, and take his hive somewhere else, anywhere else. But he accepts the job ahead of him, approaching the cliff's edge and transforming against the sunlight. He thinks of his warrior's faces, thinks of how all of their complexity, their unity, is stripped down to the word "bug," and finds enough fury to launch himself off the cliff with the most raw battle cry he has ever uttered.

He knows he has an invaluable advantage in beast mode. Flight is a lifesaver and a tactical blessing that no Wrecker can match. But Hardshell can only stand it for mere seconds before changing back; it's the first time he's ever felt uneasy in that form.

He slams into the Wrecker too hard, demolishing a boulder and nearly losing his balance. A couple joints have dislodged in his shoulder; he rolls it to realign them, unfazed. Nowhere near in the mood for banter, he calls the Wrecker's need to commentate on the battle a sign of weakness.

"Only when you're too primitive to do two things at once."

That's it. Something snaps irreparably in Hardshell's brain, some part of him that doesn't crack under the remark so much as let the accumulated insults finally topple over. The resulting crash morphs his rage from burning bloodlust to a cold, almost detached resolve.

It takes a few moments for the change to set in. The Wrecker struggles to free his swords from Hardshell's grip while the Insecticon watches, still as death. Then he curls his claws into fists to the best of his ability and uses them to send the Wrecker flying.

He should have transformed to beast mode, carried the Wrecker into the air and dropped him. He delivers punch after punch instead. He tells himself it's because it's more satisfying.

His voice shifts from a deep rumble to the common Insecticon screech as he thrashes with his secondary arms. He can't help it. He pummels the Wrecker over and over again until the body hangs limp in his grasp.

He prepares to dig out the spark, claiming it somewhat sardonically in Megatron's name. No amount of catharsis derived from killing a Wrecker will make this victory sweet. As he lifts his claw, the Autobot's ship ascends from the dusty ground like a ghost, leveling its cannon at him.

A ripple of fear passes through the warriors on the cliff. Hardshell senses it but doesn't share the feeling. He lowers his head and growls at the threat, and the hive, realizing his commitment, goes quiet.

He does not flee, even as the missile rushes toward him on a haphazard but unmistakably accurate path. Something holds him back, roots him to the earth. His only defense is to raise his arms before his face, and even then, the movement does not seem entirely his own.

A second of infernal heat is all he has time to experience before his torso shatters. His perception warps in his last moments, distorts his spatial reasoning and sense of time. The missile, though still approaching, somehow shrinks away from him like this is all a sick game.

He knows it is too late to do anything, and it isn't long before his hive accepts this as well. They transform from beast mode to accompany him as a warrior in life and death. For the first time, their unified action takes him by surprise, but it grants him one final moment of assurance; even if they don't understand his resolve, they follow, loyal until the last.

If there is a body to retrieve, then it will be this one. Let his comrades deliver the warrior's spark that Megatron so vehemently demanded. If there is no preventing his death as a failure in the warlord's eyes, then at least he will not die a savage, too.


End file.
